Snapshots
by alicebluegown16
Summary: Ficlets featuring our favorite non-traditional family: The House of M. Titles taken from hanuueshe's Fifty Prompts. Established relationhip and first time stories.
1. Chapter 1

California Dreaming

California Dreaming

Mohinder is not afraid of the water. He'll concede that as a child it made him uneasy. The tug of the waves pulling the sand away from his feet disturbed him, left him feeling small and helpless. What could you ever depend on if you knew the very earth beneath your feet might vanish at any moment? He always made a point of staying in the shallows where he could see the bottom clearly. Knowing exactly where he was walking helped somewhat.

Now that he's older, the water doesn't make him uneasy, merely sad. It makes him think of white linen, holding his fathers ashes, apologies and goodbyes that were never allowed to be said.

Matt…Matt is the complete opposite. Matt is a child of the ocean, a California boy through and through. Mohinder had not realized how true this was, after all Matt seemed to enjoy living in New York, until they spend a summer vacation visiting Matt's mother.

The sea air brings Matt to vivid boisterous life. Swimming like a fish even in the heaviest of currents, laughing loud enough to be heard over the crashing waves, building elaborate sand castles with Molly. Huge magnificent feats of engineering that miraculously never fall down.

The night before their flight home, he and Matt go out on a proper date. Fancy restaurant, candlelight, soft music. Afterwards, Matt insists on walking along the beach. A last goodbye to paradise. They leave shoes and socks in the sand and roll their pants legs up. Stepping out into to the water, to their ankles, then their shins, then their knees. The sunset is such a breathtaking riot of reds and purples and oranges and Matt's arms feel so solid around his waist, Mohinder doesn't look down to see where he's walking, not once.

When they come home after three weeks with a suitcase full of souvenirs, mostly seashells neither of them had the heart to tell Molly to get rid of, Matt is almost as dark as Mohinder. He wastes no time uploading an image of the sunset over the water as the screensaver on his computer. The banner reads California Dreaming.

The first couple of months back are wonderful. They were a family before, but shared memories make the bonds even stronger. The days are filled with conversations liberally sprinkled with "Remember when…" and "Doesn't that remind you of…" Matt jokes about starting a tiny beach in the bathtub with all the sand that accumulated in their clothes.

But as the temperatures cool and Matt's tan fades, his mood changes.

Winter seems to go on forever. Snow turning into grey slush, black ice, the damp mildewy scent of wet wool, people pushing and shoving to get out of the cold that seeps into your very bones. The three of them pass the same runny nose around from January through early March. Matt talks to his mother more than ever, checks the temperature in California every day and looks wistful.

One afternoon, he watches Matt sleep for hours under the window in a spot of weak February sunlight, like a big cat. But it isn't a peaceful sleep, always twitching, frowning and restless.

Mohinder pins all of his hopes on spring, but as the weather warms Matt's mood impossibly worsens. It takes him awhile to figure out why. The freezing ice, snow, sleet, ugly grayness of the air and the buildings and even the people, it's like nothing Matt's ever known. But how heartbreaking must it be when the clouds break and the sun shines and you realize you're so close to paradise and yet so far away? It's not just the sun, although that's part of it. Matt misses the very air, the smell, the salt of the ocean. He misses California. He misses his home.

Mohinder can't understand it. After years of standing with one foot in India and another in England and never belonging in either fully and later crisscrossing the globe for conferences and work, he can't comprehend anyone being so tied to a place. But Matt is. California, always mild, lazy, rolling with thick ocean breezes, sand, sun, and blue green waves capped with white, is part of Matt. Possibly a hidden part Mohinder will never be able to touch.

It terrifies him. He recalls something Naomi told him as they sat on the blankets under a huge umbrella. Watching Matt smile and turn his face into the sun like child leaning into a mother's touch.

"He's always been like that, you know. I was three weeks past my due date with him and went out walking along the shore. Back and forth for hours. Maury insisted I was an idiot for it, but I gave birth that same night. Matty's followed the tide ever since."

Now Mohinder is most definitely afraid of the water. Afraid it's going to take Matt away from him. He dreams about swimming far out, farther than he's ever had the courage to do in reality, and not caring as the shoreline becomes fainter and fainter because he has to get to Matt. Calling his name as the water swirls around him. He can't see the bottom, can't see where he's going and Matt's nowhere to be found. He's all alone. He wakes up choking and gasping convinced he can taste sea water.

The first day of summer, Mohinder rents a car and packs the family up driving to the Jersey Shore. He barely stops to drop their things at their motel and then they walk to the beach, just a few minutes away, all the way down to where the waves are licking at the sand. The water's colder than the Pacific, Molly's loud shriek of surprise attests to that. It's shabby and rundown with several business boarded up. All in all, there's an air of disrepute about the place.

Matt stares at the water and Mohinder stares at Matt.

"Is it like home?"

Matt shakes his head.

"Not really."

Mohinder watches Matt walk away along the shoreline. Stands there frozen as the earth disappears under his feet.

It's not the same, but can't it be enough? Can't they pretend? It's the same gulls, same sand, same smell, mostly. But it isn't. Matt would know, wouldn't he? It's just a pale imitation, like he and Molly are a pale imitation of the life Matt might have lived in California if not for his world falling apart.

Mohinder's so utterly miserable about this failure, he doesn't notice the waves gathering in size and volume until one hits him square in the face. He's knocked to the ground sputtering and choking just like in his dream.

Matt pulls him to his feet. Wraps his arms around Mohinder's waist and kisses his throat.

"This first year has been a period of adjustment and I know I haven't been fair to you at all. It's not the same. But I appreciate the effort and I'm sorry I worried you. Yes, California was my home, but it's not anymore. And it never could be without you. You and Molly and wherever we live, even a skeezy apartment in Brooklyn, that's home for me."

Matt kisses him as the sun falls into the water. Nuzzles his neck and gives the skin a long slow lick. Mohinder lets out an involuntary yelp of surprise and feels Matt's rumbling laugh through his entire body.

"Mmmm, you taste like the ocean. Mohinder and ocean. Two of my favorite things together."

That night Mohinder dreams of sandcastles, blue water as clear as glass for miles in every direction, and Matt.


	2. Chapter 2

For the most part, Matt didn't usually remember his dreams

Perchance to Dream

For the most part, Matt didn't usually remember his dreams. Unless they were nightmares. And for the most part, he didn't ever have recurring dreams. Again, unless they were nightmares. Which he had a lot more often these days. Which was supremely bad luck on his part.

Why then had he been not only having the same dream for over a week but remembering ever single detail of it as well?

It wasn't a bad dream necessarily. Just…weird.

One night while out having beers with the Petrelli brothers, he gets up the nerve to ask Peter. Figures the younger man is suitably new agey and philosophical enough to attempt an interpretation.

"Hey, did you ever have a dream that made no sense?"

Peter quirks an eyebrow and flashes his crooked smile. Matt can't help thinking it makes his face look sort of lopsided.

"I don't know, Nate, have I ever had a dream that didn't make sense?"

Nathan puts on a great show of pondering the question.

"Let me think…Does exploding count?"

Matt rolls his eyes, instantly regretting bringing it up. He should have anticipated the Petrelli Smart Ass Tag-team.

"Okay, stupid question. Forgive me for momentarily letting it slip my mind that I'm friends with a walking comic book character…says the guy who reads minds. It's just; I've been having this recurring dream. Mohinder and I-"

Out of the corner of Matt's eye, Nathan stands to get a new pitcher of beer and immediately sits back down at the change in topic looking extremely intrigued. The 'shouldn't have done this' alarm blares in Matt's head loud enough to almost block out the thoughts of everyone in the bar. However, in the end, a need to know weighs out and he tries again.

"…Mohinder and I were on the roof of our apartment building. But it's this jungle. A freaky jungle with vines everywhere and leaves the size of my arm. Flowers as tall as I am. And we're sitting in the sun splitting a bag of cherries."

There's a long awkward silence as his companions take this all in. Matt desperately gulps down half of his glass in one huge swallow.

"That's it? You and the professor in a lush tropical hideaway eating fruit? Wait, I remember reading this story once. It doesn't end well. Was there a snake? A big slithering evil snake that talked? Were you two naked?"

Matt wants to sink underneath the table at Nathan's smirk. Did he have to make it all sound so dirty? Especially when Matt kind of just a little suspected it might be?

"That's it. No conversation. No snake. No midgets talking backwards. But it was so weird. I mean besides the jungle in Brooklyn, the cherries were like the most perfect cherries you've ever seen. Whattya call it? The platonic ideal of cherries. No seeds, no stems, each one exactly ripe. And the bag never empties. We sit there eating cherries forever and never get tired of them or feel sick."

Matt looks up from where he's been absentmindedly tracing at patterns in the condensation on the table to find Peter's ears are red and the younger man appears distinctly uncomfortable.

"I-uh-I'm really not good at non-apocalyptic dream interpretation. Sorry. No luck. You know what we need? I think we need more beer. Anyone else want more beer? I'm going to go get some."

Nathan immediately grabs a hold of Peter's shoulder preventing his escape.

"Aw, come on Pete, give it a try. Not even a theory?"

Peter shoots his brother an I-hate-you look.

"Maybe…maybe you're just really craving cherries?"

Nathan's wearing his shark smile which seems to show every single tooth-all three hundred of them.

"Yeah, Parkman. I'm sure that's what it is. Probably just a Vitamin C deficiency."

They don't talk about it again for the rest of the night until Peter is helping Nathan into a cab. Nathan sticks his head out the window and yells out, "Good luck on your cherry hunting quest, Parkman!"

Matt hunches down pretending not to hear. Pretending not to notice the little old lady walking her dog who is staring at him utterly appalled.

The next day during a quiet moment at work, Matt checks out a dream symbolism website. He gets as far as the phrase 'Fruit often a symbol of passion and sensuality' and immediately glances over his shoulder as if he's looking at porn.

'To dream that you are in a jungle signifies aspects of yourself and your personality that may have been inhibited.'

He reads this sentence over and over. Clicks the window closed and does paper work the rest of the day with his head down determinedly not thinking about the implications.

Or at least, he tries not to think about it, but it's like telling yourself not to think about pink elephants. Your mind immediately goes there. And stays there. No matter how much you want it to go somewhere else. Somewhere that's not making you reassess your sexuality and obsess about ruining not only your living situation but also one of the best friendships you have.

Aw, crap. When did his brain get smarter than him?

At dinner, it's all he can do not to blurt out, 'I've been having naughty fruit related dreams about you.' when Mohinder asks about his day.

The dream continues to occur. And the more frequently he has it, the more aware Matt is of Mohinder. The sharp line of his collarbone. His smile. His easy grace. The dark fan of his eyelashes. Matt suspects he may be losing his mind. Even the Cherry Cheese Danish in the precinct breakroom has him blushing and stammering.

One night, the scene changes. Mohinder stares right at him as he licks the juice from his fingers and dribbling down the inside of his wrist. He makes a pleased humming noise in the back of his throat and grins, teeth impossibly whiter against the stained red of his mouth.

Matt watches as his dream self cups Mohinder's jaw. Mohinder turns his face into the other man's palm and sucks a bit of cherry pulp off of the tip of DreamMatt's thumb.

He wakes up with a start soaked in sweat, sheets sticky and damp with what is very much not sweat.

3: 00 a.m. linen changes. Didn't need to be Freud to figure that one out.

It would seem he was in big gay cherry eating lust with his roommate.

Stupid subconscious.

The next morning he can't meet Mohinder's gaze. Hasn't felt this self conscious since he was fourteen and terrified his mother would learn of his fantasies about Nadine Bannerman, the Hottie of Homeroom.

"—Get you anything?"

"Huh?"

Real smooth there, Parkman.

Mohinder doesn't comment on his wool gathering. Merely smiles patiently-Mohinder smile! Too much for first thing in the morning!-and repeats himself.

"I'm going to the grocery store with Molly. Is there anything I can get you, Matthew?"

Mohinder looks so obliging. All curls and dark eyes. It's on the tip of Matt's tongue to ask…

"No! I mean…no. Thanks, but I'm good."

The afternoon finds Matt aimlessly flipping through channels when Mohinder and Molly return.

With one ear he acknowledges Mohinder is speaking to him.

"I bought a treat for us…on sale…good to pass up."

An icy cold wave of dread washes over him from the tips of his eyelashes to the soles of his feet. Mohinder has his head buried in one of the bags, but Matt doesn't even have to look. He knows instinctively what it is.

"Aha!"

A loud shut of triumph as Mohinder holds up his prize.

Cherries.

A huge plastic bag bursting to almost overflowing with them.

Matt stares slack jawed as Mohinder wastes no time popping several into his mouth.

He doesn't stop to think about it. Crosses the room in three huge steps and pulls Mohinder into a kiss.

He's lost all sense. His dreams have clearly driven him mad. Or maybe he's dreaming right now. Would that count as a viable defense? Sorry for the awkward moment, but I thought I was in one of my dirty dreams about you and got confused.

No, this must be reality because the cherries from the store aren't perfect dream cherries. They're tart and slightly sour on Mohinder's tongue. But Mohinder's mouth is better than any dream, so warm, slightly sticky at the corners, and he moans clutching desperately at Matt's shoulders when he sucks on his bottom lip.

They pull away because they have to. Because this is reality and man can not live on cherries and kisses alone.

"What- What was that?"

Matt's relieved Mohinder doesn't sound angry, merely surprised at this sudden turn of events.

The stuff that dreams are made of.

He doesn't say it aloud. He's not Bogie cool and would never be able to play it off. Instead he kisses Mohinder again, his expression more than a little giddy.

"Something I've wanted a long time. Grab the bag and we'll talk about it…you know anything about dream interpretation by any chance?"


	3. Chapter 3

Comfort

Comfort

Mohinder cursed in every language he knew and some made up on the spot as he frantically fumbled with his keys. His heart dropped down around his knees when the door suddenly swung open on its own accord.

Unlocked.

_Weapon…wish I had a weapon…fat lot of good that would do…probably already heard me coming up the elevator. Matt. Oh God, Matt. Please be alive._

The apartment was eerily silent. The calm before the storm?

No one in sight. Where were they? Was he already too late?

He didn't even think about it. With one quick sudden motion, he burst into the bedroom, almost taking the door off of its hinges.

Upon entering, Mohinder stared in confusion. No serial killers to be found. Matt lay in bed, dressed in threadbare flannel pajamas. Surrounded by a towering mountain of tissues, the air damp from the steady spray of the humidifier and smelling strongly of Vicks.

Matt's eyes were the size of dinner plates, his brows located somewhere in the vicinity of his hairline. As Mohinder leaned against the much abused frame of the door in relief, the excitement become too much for the patient, and he suddenly doubled over into a wrenching coughing fit.

Finally, several moments later Matt drew in a shuddering breath.

"You sure showed that big mean old door who was boss. My hero."

Oh, this was so not amusing in the least.

"I thought you were in trouble." Mohinder spit out.

"Because…"

"Because you sent me a text message that said 'Help. In trouble. Come quick.'

Matt flopped back against the pillows and shut his eyes.

"Did you happen to read the second text I sent before bursting in guns blazing?"

Mohinder pulled out his phone.

'Help in form of sherbet. Lemon. All out.'

If not for the pitiful sight Matt made, with the comforter pulled up to his chin, completely wrung out, Mohinder might have given into the urge to chuck his phone at the man's head.

"Matthew, this isn't funny. We have a crazed killer on our trail and you think ominous text messages are a good thing?"

Matt stared at him for a beat before comprehension dawned.

"Huh. Alright, I can see how your mind might run in that direction."

_Might! Try, did!_

"I'm sorry! I wasn't thinking clearly, obviously. But, I'm not exactly firing on all cylinders at present. I'm sneezy, sleepy, and dopey. That's three of seven dwarves! Along with two of their lesser known brothers, Achy and Phlegmy."

At Mohinder's glare, Matt sank further back into the pillows.

"Wow. Looks like you've got the market cornered on Grumpy. Please, Mohinder. Angry later. Lemon sherbet, now. It's the only thing that makes my throat feel better."

Mohinder crossed his arms across his chest and fixed his lover with a mock glare. He's going to give in, they both know it. But after the near heart attack Matt inspired, he's not going to do it without a little teasing. Call him a sadist.

"Why should I?"

"Because you love me. Because your heart goes out to me in my weakened state. Because when I'm no longer a walking biohazard I'm totally going to make it worth your while."

Matt grinned at him like a mischievous schoolboy. The smile coupled with his flannel pajamas and hair wildly sticking up had Mohinder instantly melting.

"Fine then. But more for the third reason than anything."

"Liar. You worship me."

With a shake of his head, Mohinder turns around to go back out.

"Wait! Who's going to protect me from the door when you're gone?"

The joke is somewhat ruined by Matt falling into another coughing fit.

Matt woke up to an aching head. He felt woozy and groggy; his throat was sore and his whole body hurt. Being sick sucked. He attempted to shift in the bed, intending to check his face to see if he still had a fever, but found he couldn't move his hands.

Mohinder lay sprawled next to him, the weight of his body holding the comforter tight. Earlier anger evidently completely forgotten, Mohinder was watching him with a look of such love and tenderness, full of so much concern, it made Matt's throat ache for a whole other reason.

Mohinder held up the bowl of lemony heaven like a prize.

"For you. I also got chicken noodle soup, orange juice, cough drops, chamomile tea, and more tissues as you're working your way through the box at an alarming rate."

"Have I told you lately that I love you?"

Matt attempted to reach for the bowl, but Mohinder held it just out of his grasp.

"Open up, Matthew. What's that drivel parents are supposed to say to unruly small children? Open up for the airplane."

Matt glared at his tormentor.

"And I've suddenly changed my mind. I hate you."

But he obediently opened his mouth for the spoon. There's much relief when Mohinder does not elect to make airplane noises. If he had, Matt would have been forced to sneeze on him.

Matt managed half the bowl, his throat not feeling coated in barbed wire for what seems like the first time all day.

Mohinder touched his forehead gently, petting the side of his face and pushing his hair away from his forehead.

"You should try to get more sleep, love."

Matt makes no protest. He's warm and cozy instead of feverish and uncomfortable and his improved state is making him very drowsy.

Instead of leaving, Mohinder lies back down on the bed and curls an arm around Matt's waist, nuzzling at his neck.

"Going to sing me a lullaby?" Matt slurs out, already almost out.

A joke, but Mohinder pulls him closer and begins to softly sing one of the tunes always guaranteed to put Molly back to sleep after one of her nightmares.

The comforting rise and fall of the melody, the knowledge that Mohinder will be there with cool capable hands and whatever else he could need when he wakes up, has Matt asleep within moments.


	4. Chapter 4

Punk

Punk

Mohinder was visiting him at the station today.

Which sucked.

Not that Matt didn't enjoy Mohinder's company.

Enjoy that warm fuzzy completely and utterly _terrifying_ feeling at the knowledge Mohinder sought him out, rearranged his schedule so they could have lunch together.

Just that Mohinder's presence always caused a bit of an uproar.

Which Mohinder was entirely oblivious to as he couldn't actually hear it.

Matt could.

He heard the storm of dirty thoughts in Mohinder's wake.

Single women, married women,--married _men_ thinking things they should not be thinking. Cragen, that sonofabitch and his 'a mouth's a mouth' justification. Prick. How dare he look at Mohinder like one of the hustlers brought in by vice squad!

And Betty, the sweet little old lady from records. Imagining things with fuzzy handcuffs that had Matt longing to gouge out his inner eye.

He wanted to yell 'Back off!' Wanted to put his arm around Mohinder's shoulders, in a completely innocent and protective gesture, and lead him away from this seething pit of hormones.

_Don't touch him! He's mine!_

His what? His friend? His roommate? His no chance in hell with co-parent?

This is why Mohinder visiting the station sucked. Because Mohinder is gorgeous and brilliant and while Matt can reluctantly accept the idea that eventually Mohinder is going to one of these days look back at someone, Matt refuses to let it be someone he works with.

Been there, done that.

The very possibility of it ruins Matt's lunch. Sours his stomach and turns him into a moody monosyllabic jerk.

Makes Mohinder worry and wonder if he's done something wrong. Which of course only makes Matt feel worse.

This had to stop.

Matt decides he's staging an intervention.

He pulls Mohinder into an empty interrogation room and shuts the door.

"You can't visit me here anymore. I-I it's too much. The objectifying. The mental flinging of panties in your direction. I can't--I have to work with these people."

"I'm…I'm sorry. I don't understand. Are you saying I'm not allowed to see you at the station because your co-workers find me attractive? And this-this _bothers_ you?"

Matt can't tell what Mohinder's expression means and his thoughts have switched to Tamil. This sends Matt into such a panic his words spill out, syllables tripping over each other.

"No! I mean-yes…It bothers me because it's more than finding you attractive. Everyone here from meter maids down to the guys in the holding cells want to do naughty things to you! It's sickening. It's embarrassing. It's the great Mohinder love fest. It's everywhere. Like disco."

Mohinder stares at him as if he just confessed he plans to run off with Angela Petrelli. But Matt has found a metaphor that works for him and his uncooperative brain is insisting he run it into the ground.

"It sucks. It's cliché. And I refuse to be a cliché. I don't like following the crowd, I've tried not to, but I am, and right now the crowd is clamoring for you and your dreamy accent. I know I don't have a chance in hell, but I refuse to stand behind the velvet rope and watch all the beautiful people pass me by. We need a new song and dance. Where's a punk movement when you need it?"

Matt's brain is screaming at him to shut up. He's ninety-nine percent sure he's revealed way more than he intended and-whoa! When did Mohinder get so close to him? Without realizing it, the other man has quietly invaded Matt's personal space so completely it's unsure anyone could fit a piece of paper between them.

"Matthew."

Mohinder's breath tickles the side of Matt's face.

"Y-yeah?" How about that? His voice just drifted up into ranges he hasn't heard since puberty.

"Did I ever tell you I _love _punk music?"

No, Matt honestly can't ever remember that conversation. Of course, he also can't remember his last name right now.

Oh man, Mohinder's lips are just barely brushing his ear. If he turns his head a little to the left, they'll be kissing. He could be kissing _Mohinder._

"You-uh-you do?"

The smile Mohinder flashes is more than a little predatory. Very grandma what big teeth you have. Involuntarily he takes a step back, but Mohinder moves with him backing him into the wall.

"Of course I do. I lived in England. Punk music was born there."

Matt suddenly jerks back horrifically offended.

"It was not! Dude, the Ramones showed up on the scene in New York two years before The Clash!"

Mohinder takes less than a moment to recover at this non sequitor.

"And then when they came to England they were nothing more than second billing to the Flamin' Groovies. Just an opening act. Loud noise to get the crowd going."

_He knows the Flamin' Groovies! Shut up about that, he was about to kiss you! But he's so totally wrong!_

"Bullshit! The Ramones inspired The Damned, The Clash and the Sex Pistols."

A loud scoff of disbelief.

"Don't be naive, the Ramones wouldn't know originality if they found it in a dime bag. And their stage act was clearly derivative of The Beatles."

Matt smirks.

"The Beatles. Who also stole heavily from American music. Face it; your guys are always behind the times."

Mohinder grins at him, eyes laughing like someone who is just beginning to warm to a topic he truly enjoys. Matt doesn't think he's ever seen the other man this excited about something that didn't involve Molly or amino acids.

"Not stole, Matthew. Never stole. Merely improved. Perfected if you will. IfTthe Clash were influenced by American punk it was only to make it better."

"But, the Ramones had longevity! Twenty years together. The Clash fell apart in less than a decade."

Mohinder's eyes immediately go wide with false concern.

"I'm sorry, have you hit your head recently?"

"By the time London Calling came out, the Ramones were on their fourth album--"

"You _must_ have hit your head, or maybe had another close encounter with a fire hydrant and lost all _sense._ The Clash were political. Thought provoking. Please, explain to me the deep social meaning behind 'Ay, Oh, Let's Go'"

"--Couldn't even keep a drummer. The Clash had what? Maybe three really good years? And Rock the Casbah _sucks._ There, I said it!—"

"Awareness of your surrounding, Matthew. It's essential to your profession. I can't always be there to rush to your aid."

Mohinder leans forward claiming he needs to check Matt's pupils and Matt punches him in the arm. They're both grinning like idiots. Matt feels happier than he remembers being in ages. He _loves_ this version of Mohinder. Why can't he get this version all the time? This Mohinder jokes with him and they have things in common and he doesn't make Matt feel like a fat dumb cop and oh dear, lord. This version of Mohinder is kissing him!

Hands moving up to cup his jaw, his face, pressing up against him, devouring Matt's mouth.

This version of Mohinder is sucking on his tongue and moaning and Matt instantly decides they can agree to disagree. Hell, this version of Mohinder could confess an affinity for the Starland Vocal Band and Matt would be fine with it as long as they can keep doing this.

When they pull apart, Matt's hands are in the back pockets of Mohinder's pants and his suit jacket has ended up on the floor somehow.

Mohinder presses his mouth the shell of Matt's ear.

"People can look and think all they want. I don't want them. I want _you,_ Matthew."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

The warm bubble of happiness building in Matt's chest is probably a very not-punk emotion. He doesn't care.

Mohinder focuses his gaze on Matt's mouth.

"Hurry home tonight. We'll talk. And if you're really lucky…I'll show you my vinyl collection."


	5. Chapter 5

Unanticipated

Unanticipated

As attracted as he is to Matt, their first night together Mohinder keeps his expectations extremely low.

After all, first times are usually awkward enough without the added tension of it also being Matt's first time with another man.

When undressing, he's blushing and slightly fumbling, spending far more time than necessary fiddling with the laces on his shoes, unable to meet Mohinder's gaze.

It leaves Mohinder more than a little conflicted.

The proper thing to do would be reassuring Matt they'll go slow, that they have all the time in the world and nothing will happen he doesn't want to happen.

But Mohinder doesn't want to be proper. He wants to rip Matt's clothes off and fuck his brains out. And then after they've collected themselves, he wants Matt to do the same to him. Or maybe he wants Matt to take his time. He hasn't gotten that far in the planning beyond: Matthew. Naked. Immediately.

The plan that isn't really a plan takes a sudden turn for the unexpected when Matt suddenly grins at him and practically tackles him on the bed.

Matt doesn't look at all unsure and now instead of promises of going slow, it's Mohinder who is rushing to keep up.

Everything is fair game. Matt seems to view all of Mohinder's body parts equally, all worthy of attention. Matt kisses his neck and licks his balls without seeming to see any real difference in the two. Shin to shoulders, belly to butt, Matt's everywhere.

Matt sprawls on top of him, a warm solid weight pressing him into the mattress. A hickey already forming on his neck, hair sticking up from having fingers run through it, mouth kiss swollen and eyes fever bright.

When Matt hands the tube of lube to him, Mohinder's jaw drops.

"You're the one with the experience. This time you and then next time, we switch. Cool?"

That simple. No angst, no arguing over dynamics and power, no soothing Matt's bruised masculinity.

Instantly, any possible notion of sexual superiority vanishes. Matt is it. Matt is the next step in evolution. No idiotic self imposed rating system, no hang ups, no self consciousness. Mohinder aspires to be like Matt.

If it feels good, do it.

So he does it.

Tries his absolute best to rise to Matt's level and has a wonderful messy time of it.

Kissing, sucking, licking, biting, moving inside of Matt, who is spread out before him like a buffet.

_Good, so good, Matt, best thing ever, best thing ever and then some, yes, want, Matt._

.Afterwards, Mohinder lays there, limp and damp with pleasure unsure how to put himself back together and unsure if he wants to.

"Janice was clearly an idiot." He blurts out and squeezes his eyes shut in mortification.

So much for the wonderful post orgasm languor.

Instead of getting angry, Matt lets out a snort of laughter and bites at his ear.

"Bringing up the ex-wife right after we made sweet beautiful love. How romantic. Just for that, you're sleeping in the wet spot."

Mohinder doesn't know if he should try to explain himself. Currently his brain has exploded into a thousand vibrating pieces and attempting to speak before he's squeezed it back into order might result in putting his foot in his mouth further. And that's one bedroom acrobatic he doesn't think he can recover from.

Mercifully, Matt lets him off the hook.

"It was never like this with Janice. I can't tell you if it was because part of me knew she wasn't what I really wanted, or if we just weren't right for each other…but it was never this good."

"I—then—how?"

"Because of you. You've got this whole feedback loop going about how much you want me, how sexy I am. I've never been sexy for anyone. You're safe. I don't have to worry about looking dumb or not being able to play something off because you'll still be here, wanting me no matter what. Plus, I survived four bullets to the chest. If I don't have the guts to ask for what I want in the privacy of our own bedroom, then what kind of living is that?"

This simple wisdom leaves Mohinder speechless.

He'd never really thought about it, but in a strange way it makes perfect sense. Losing everything, learning how fragile life can be, starting all over again, would be quite freeing.

A feedback loop. His thoughts stimulating Matt who acted and thus triggered heightened responses in him. It was a mobius strip of sexual chemistry.

All in all, a most unanticipated offshoot of Matt's powers.

But not unwelcome. One that would require much further study.

Matt hits him in the face with a pillow.

"You're monologuing, Doc. Think later, sleep now. We've got all the time in the world for you to turn me into your kinky science fair project."


	6. Chapter 6

TMI

TMI

Bob sticks Elle in the lab after Sylar. Mohinder thinks he should be offended that he counts as a punishment.

The first day of her enforced servitude she comments, "So you're from India, right? Can you do the tantric sex with orgasms that last for hours, and hours, and hours, and hours?"

Working with Elle is a bit like trial by fire, but her inability to have an unexpressed thought is somewhat offset by the fact she is the first assistant who hasn't quit on him frustration. Apparently he doesn't coddle them enough. Or remember their names. And it seems that asking someone to stay until 4 a.m. is a bit unreasonable.

But Elle is different. Once you learn to ignore a majority of what comes out of her mouth, she's a diligent worker and extremely intelligent. And she makes good tea. Not the sad little individual bags of Lipton from the cafeteria. Made with an actual teapot and loose leaves. The first time she presented it to him, he almost wept with joy. She delivers it to him first thing every morning in mugs with dirty pictures on them, a different one for every day of the week.

The only problem with Elle, was her very Elleness. She immediately sniffed out his relationship with Matt. How someone so socially inept could be so talented at reading people Mohinder will never know, but since then, there had been a steady stream of dirty jokes and filthy insinuations.

One morning, Mohinder looks up from his microscope after a particularly graphic suggestion involving handcuffs, silk scarves, and ice cubes.

"Alright then, now that you've demonstrated your mastery of the single entendre, why don't you take a break? I'll call your cell if I need you."

He gathers his lab coat around his body like a shield. Glares until it is clear to the young woman that this is not a suggestion.

Mohinder breathes a sigh of relief when she finally leaves.

It had been a close one.

Another minute and he would have confessed his big secret.

He and Matt had already done exactly what Elle suggested ages ago.

His bigger secret?

He was dying to talk about it with someone.

Mohinder didn't understand it. He had always been an intensely private person, but now it was all he could do to keep from accosting random people on the street and bragging about his mind-blowing sex life.

Perhaps because this was the first time it was more than simply sex. He was absolutely head over heels in love with Matthew Parkman. It was exhilarating and overwhelming and he wanted to gossip about his lover with a friend and oddly enough, Elle was the closest definition he had.

He doesn't get a chance.

After his show of temper, things change in the lab.

Mohinder strongly suspects a stern talking to by Bob and a very detailed lecture on keeping the scientist happy, what constitutes a hostile work environment, and the many grave consequences should Elle fail.

When Elle returns, she is slightly shaken and polite to the point of formal.

No nicknames. A plain blue mug for his tea. She watches him now with something resembling pity. Mohinder's guilt at snapping at the girl and getting her into trouble with her father soon turns to horror at a sudden realization.

Elle has lumped him into the category of asexual science obsessive. He's just another automaton, a lab drone, a Company man for her to ignore whenever it suits her.

He had finally made a friend, not just a colleague he was willing to tolerate, and he's driven her away.

He wants to correct her. Wants to blurt out, "You're wrong! We had sex right here on this table and it was amazing! He's a telepath for heaven's sake! He can make me come with just the power of his mind."

When he comes to work on crutches one day, Elle practically sprints to his side, professional decorum completely abandoned.

"What the hell, Fight Club?!"

It's the first time he's been anything but Dr. Suresh in ages. It's all he can do not to smile despite his discomfort.

"It's nothing. I'm fine."

"Were you mugged? In an accident? Need me to rough somebody up for you?"

How far has he come that he's strangely touched by the sentiment?

"I'm perfectly alright. I fell is all."

"You fell?"

Elle squints at him clearly not buying the story.

_Don't do it…don't do it._

"Off the kitchen counter."

"Off the—"

Elle's speech trails off as she puts two and two together. Her expression suddenly opens into a look of soul deep joy.

"Doc…Oh, Doc. Don't tease me so." She holds up her hands as if in prayer. "Please, tell me. How does one fall off the kitchen counter?"

Mohinder's smile is a parody of innocence.

"It's quite easy actually when the person holding you up accidentally lets go. But it was well worth it, I assure you."

Elle makes a move to hug him but in deference to his condition thinks better of it. She settles for grabbing his free hand and squeezing it until the knuckles crack.

"I—I'm going to get out tea and then we're going to have a nice long talk. I want all the dirty details!"


End file.
